Tango
by SpunSilk
Summary: Kolchak: The Night Stalker story. "You know, I've never been able to really talk with somebody else about all the strange stuff I've seen. Tell about it– yes, talk about it– no."
1. Chapter 1

**Carl is not mine, but I'm borrowing him for this story. Reviewing really helps, let your voice be heard!**

**Tango**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part one**

* * *

Right now, I'm having amnesia and deja vu at the same time.

–– Steven Wright

* * *

He groaned. His mind was large with the expectation that it would feel smooth, but the asphalt under his fingers was rough and stoney. He tried to raise up to his knees, but the effort made his head spin badly and he retched. He collapsed to the ground again, and lay still.

_What_ had just happened? His thoughts were fragmented, confused, overwhelmed. His head pounded and his heart was racing. Slow down, think... That was difficult; there seemed to be no place to start thinking _from_. All he knew was he was on the ground and his whole body hurt.

As the minutes passed, the fog in his mind cleared enough for him to notice _where_ he was laying: the center of a street. This was not good. He was clear enough now to know he needed to move. Against his body's protests, he pulled himself to his knees and crawled past the cars parked at the side and onto the sidewalk. He forced his body all the way to the wall and came to rest leaning his back up against it, were he sat for a long time recovering from the effort. He pulled his straw hat forward over his eyes in order to lean his head gingerly against the brick, and calmed his body with slow deliberate breaths.

It was dark. Night, then. The city street was abandon, strewn with the normal litter. The nausea was the first to ease. After that, the burning in his muscles improved. The headache seemed to be his to keep. He shivered in the cool night temperatures. Where was he? The nondescript city street could have been any city, but what bothered him most was he didn't know what city he _expected_ it to be. His mind was a jumble.

Alcohol? No, this wasn't like any hang-over he had ever had. He did remember hang-overs. He checked himself over for injuries. Okay, the body seemed to be whole. The camera and recorder still hung on his shoulder. Just the mind was confused. He continued sitting on the ground, blinking and breathing.

At length, though, he got cold. He was wearing only a light seersucker suit coat. And the straw hat offered no warmth. He needed shelter. With great effort, he pulled himself up to his feet, and, using the wall for a handhold at first, started walking.

The corner, once he reached it, offered a street sign. Macmillan Avenue. That's right! Macmillan... Macmillan... Chicago. He was _home_. Relief washed over him to remember something familiar. He was not far from his room he affectionately called 'The Dive'. Slowly he made his way towards it, paying careful attention to his balance.

Finally at his building, he entered the warm lobby gratefully. A scruffy middle-aged man sat behind a wire grid at the desk. The man looked up when he entered, and exclaimed "Kolchak! Man, you look awful – what happened to you?"

"I – don't know, Sam." his voice was rough when he spoke. "I just gotta... go lie down a while..."

"Ya need help?" he put his cigarette in the ash tray and made to come out of the cage.

"No, no. I'm fine..." Kolchak made his way carefully to the elevator.

Finally at his door, he reached up above the molding for his key. Opening the door and replacing the key, he let out a sigh of relief when he turned on the light. _Familiar_. He had never appreciated the security that comes from familiar surroundings before. More of his memory was returning now, faster all the time. The room looked just like he had left it this morning, although he couldn't shake the odd feeling that he had been gone a long time. He dismissed it.

He dropped the camera and recorder on the bedside stand and went to the kitchen corner to pour himself a glass of water. He rinsed his mouth and spat, and went into the bathroom to wash his face of gravel and vomit. He stared at his haggard reflexion in the light of the 40 watt. The memory pestered him that he had expected it to feel smooth... He pealed to his boxers and fell thankfully into bed with the lamp still on. He knew he always slept with the light on. Curious...

He sank into the relative clarity of dreams in short order.

* * *

A few hours later, Sam was watching the game on late-night TV when the front door opened and Carl Kolchak came in –– upright, but feeling no pain. "Evening, Sam!" he sang out jovially, and started to the elevator.

"Morning, Kolchak!" Sam exclaimed. "You alright?"

Carl swung back to him. "Never better, my friend. And you?"

"Well, ya sure _look_ at lot better. How'd ya go out without my seeing?"

"Sam, my boy, I go out without your permission _every_ night!"

"But–" however Kolchak had disappeared into the elevator.

* * *

Inside the room upstairs, Kolchak awakened quickly to the sound of a key fumbling into his lock. One doesn't live through what he had lived through and sleep without one eye open. His door was swinging open–– he grabbed for the small metal crucifix he kept under the other pillow and held it out in defense.

Kolchak entered the room whistling and closed the door, but when he saw the man laying in his bed, he let out a cry and fell back. He grabbed for a baseball bat kept at the door for just that purpose and held it up, ready to strike.

The two men stared at each other, each with wide eyes. A large number of beats passed.

The Kolchak at the door was the first to speak. "I don't know who you are, but I know _what_ you are!" he snarled. "You're DEAD and you have to accept it! Leave me alone!"

The Kolchak tangled in the sheets glared. "I'm not dead_ yet!_" he barked. "Don't you come closer!" Damn! The crossbow was in the storage locker in the basement. He always figured he'd have at least a few hours notice before he'd need it again. "You have to be the dimmest demon in the bunch. I realize I don't trust anybody but myself, but just how dumb do you think I _am_?"

Kolchak gripped the bat tighter in surprise. He had never heard one _talk_ before. He glanced cautiously around the room for the fires. "Look you, I'm not asleep, and after your little heads-up it will be a long time before I _am_. So just leave _now_!"

The other stared at him, trying to make it make sense. The face-off continued for a full minute longer in silence. Frowning, he finally spoke. "If you think I'm a _Doppleganger_, that bat isn't going to do you a **lick** of good."

The other shifted his weight nervously. "I think I'll keep it with me anyway, if it's all the same to you!" he said. He paused, then added, "If you think I'm a Rakshasa, that cross isn't helping you either."

Another pause. The man in the bed exhaled slowly. "I think I'll keep it with me anyway," he answered darkly, "If it's all the same to you."

They stared.

"Who _are_ you?"

"You're asking _me_? That's rich."

"_You_ are in _my_ room, in my **bed**! I'll ask what I _like_!"

"It's _my_ bed and you're drunk!" he observed in annoyance.

"Not _that_ drunk! _Who are you_?"

"Carl Kolchak."

"Problem there. That part is already taken. Try again."

"Why should _I_ answer _your_ questions?"

"Cause if you're human, me swinging this **bat **is gonna hurt you a lot more than you swinging that _cross_ is gonna hurt _me_."

He conceded the point with a tip of the head. "Then ask." he said reasonably, but still from _behind_ the crucifix.

"Who are you?"

"I am still, since the last time you asked, Carl Kolchak."

"Prove it!"

"Prove it?" he said, at a loss. "...Ask me something only he would know."

"What did I call my Granddad?"

"Bunicul. Buni for short." he answered without needing to think.

"Who were my close pals when I was young?"

"Just the two, Rusty and... and Jimmy." A cloud passed over his brow.

Kolchak's suspicious eyes raised in surprise. "What was my first editor's name?

"Old Man Wiedermeyer. For all of eleven weeks," he grinned grimly. "Until I managed to get myself fired."

The Kolchak wielding the bat frowned, but held the bat high. "Huh." he said.

"Now you answer _me_: whose desk faced mine at the Las Vegas Daily News?"

He hesitated. "Jamie's. A force of nature, that one."

"Where did I find Francois Edmonds?"

"In a hearse. In a junkyard..." he shuddered. The bat sunk a fraction.

"Where was Cassie's mole?"

"Cassie? I don't know a Cassie."

"Carl Kolchak would not have forgotten Cassie." He shook his head. "And you were doing so well..."

The bat returned to the striking position. "What was the name of the guy stuck me with the cost of that cross?"

"Lt. Mateo. But _I'm_ asking the questions now! How long did I work in D.C?"

"Eight months. Until I managed to get myself fired." He paused, and got a cunning look in his eye. "What gift did my dad give me on my 10th birthday?"

The other stopped short. "That's a trick question, and you _know_ it! How **dare** you?" he growled.

Kolchak started in surprise. A long silence hung between them. "It's true, then...You're _me_..." Slowly he lowered the bat. "Sorry. I was more interested in your reaction than an answer..." he swallowed hard. "Forget I mentioned it." The other Kolchak lowered the cross with a look of distaste on his face.

They stared.

"Where did you come from?" asked the one in the bed.

"I didn't _come from_ anywhere! Has any thing strange happened to _you_ in the last 24 hours?"

He then remembered the street, the burning in the body, the fog in the head. "_Oh_." he said in realization, a far-away look suddenly in his eyes.

"A-_ha_!" cried the other. "That _is_ my bed!"

"But it's mine too– I remember... if not, how could I have known to look for the cross there?" he asked, confused. "This... this _is_ my room. It's ..._familiar_."

Kolchak approached him cautiously. "What do you remember about what happened to you?"

"I expected it to feel smooth." he answered immediately.

"What to feel smooth?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came. Finally he breathed "I don't know."

"And then what?"

"I was laying in the middle of Macmillan Avenue."

"Did any one see what happened to you?"

Kolchak shook his head. "Nobody was around when I came to."

"Don't you have _any_ other leads?"

"Sorry to disappoint, I wasn't planning on getting amnesia today!" he said, irritated.

"Don't be so touchy, I'm trying to help. Maybe you got a picture of it, is your camera with you?"

Kolchak's eyebrows jumped. He rolled over to grab his camera from the bedside stand. He turned on the power called up the card's memory. There was in fact a picture! He held the camera first one way, then the other trying to make out what it was a picture _of_. He continued back through the other pictures.

His twin loss his grip, and the bat dropped loudly.

"There _are_ pictures! But the photographer, as always, was distracted...I'd like to see these full-sized. Where's the computer?" he glanced up and trailed off.

The other Kolchak was staring in shock at the camera in his hands with a mixture of curiosity and fear. "What the hell _is_ that thing?"

"It's my camera," he answered simply. He held it up. "What's the matter? "

He approached it cautiously, peering at it from different angles. "Those are pictures? From the ___film_?"

"From the card. What's your problem?"

"Show me your recorder."

Kolchak rolled over and retrieved the digital recorder and handed the compact device to him.

He let out a long whistle. "Friend, you are _not_ from around here." He held up his own camera and tape recorder from his shoulder. "Look."

He took the equipment from him. The cartridge camera and chunky cassette tape recorder were familiar, but so was the equipment from his shoulder on Macmillan. He understood each button on them. "I don't get it." he admitted, feeling the fog just outside his reach.

Kolchak stood frowning in thought. He reached into his pocket. "Show me your driver's license," he instructed seriously.

"It's in my wallet, there on the chair, in my trousers..."

Kolchak picked out the other man's wallet and knew exactly where he kept his license in it. "Uh-huh." he said looking at both of them side by side.

"What 'uh-huh'?"

"My license says I'm from Chicago, it expires 1977. Yours says you're from LA, and it expires... _2015."_

"_And?"_

"And the year is 1975, friend."

"_Who_ says it's 1975?"

"I say it is, and I'm in better shape to think, drunk, that you are sober." He replaced both licenses. He regarded the man with his bed hair and startled expression. He extended a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Carl."

He took the hand and shook it, blinking fast. His face screwed up in thought. "_1975? _"

"Yep. Come on, relax. You and I have seen stranger stuff than this!" he looked again at the camera. "What do you remember from before you took that picture?"

"Not...not a lot. It's all vague. But I remember _everything_ here," he looked around. "I remember where the key is, I remember the window needs to be held up with the dowel, I remember where I keep the toothpaste..."

Kolchak was pulling a thin blanket out of the closet. "You remember we don't have a lot of guest bedding?" He tossed it at the man on the bed. "You can have the couch."

His anger flashed. "Why should I sleep on the couch of my own room?" he demanded.

"_My_ room." his twin corrected him. "When _I_ visit _your_ decade, _I'll_ sleep on _your_ couch."


	2. Chapter 2

**Tango**

**Part Two**

* * *

Nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days.

–Doug Larson

* * *

The night was hard on them both. The Kolchak on the couch was badgered with intense, geometric dreams that cause him to cry out at times. They took odd turns sleeping, and the sun came up far too soon.

Kolchak on the couch woke feeling battered and stiff from his activities the evening before. He groaned quietly when he tried to move, but he noticed there was less fog in his logic center. Bad night's sleep notwithstanding...

"Morning." came a growl from the bed.

"Yes, yes it is." He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. "You got a hang-over?"

"Big time."

He nodded, "I'll get you some coffee." He pulled himself up and draped the blanket over his shoulders as a robe. He worked as quietly as he could in the kitchen corner, trying to avoid extra clunking in the making of the coffee. When he delivered it, Kolchak in the bed gave him a side-ways glance.

"That's a novelty. A house guest who knows how I like my coffee."

"Don't talk. Drink."

"Don't tell me what to do."

A hot shower and shave made a world of difference in his stiffness and in his outlook. When he came out, Kolchak on the bed was up only as far as the side of the bed. He was nursing the strong coffee with a frown. "What am I supposed to do with you today?" he wondered.

"You're not supposed to **_do _**anything with me today." he said, nursing a coffee of his own. "I'm not a lost puppy. I know this city as well as you do. Maybe better."

He looked up slowly. "You got your wits about you today?"

He nodded. "It's getting better the farther I get away from the Macmillan Avenue incident. Today I'm in better shape than _you _are."

"Great." he replied unenthusiastically. "Want to face Vincenzo for me?"

"Sure."

He looked up quickly and regretted it instantly. "Really? You're up for that? Do you _remember_ Vincenzo?"

Kolchak got a far away look in his eye as he strained to catch a flitting memory, one that danced just outside his reach. "Don't be shocked: I think I still work for Vincenzo in 2015."

A look of horror came over his face. "That news hurts worse than the hang-over!" he sank with a groan over onto the pillow.

Kolchak chuckled, and picked up the chunky 1970's camera and recorder. "I'll come check on you later. Sleep."

"Don't tell me what to do." came muffled from the pillow.

* * *

He entered the newsroom feeling like he was walking through a dream. The first impression the room gave him was the presence of wood. So much wood to be seen, smooth, rich brown in color and... stable. _Real_. The floor creaked with people walking. _Wood is good _he decided. Why would that be such a strong impression? Did 2015 not build with wood? Off to his right, the Wire consoles clacked and vibrated happily. He went over to them grinning, and laid an affectionate hand on one. Yellow paper spit out without pause, offering the latest news from around the world, free for the reading. He picked up one strand, pleased to the core to be holding the news in his _hand_ –– why did that feel so good?

"Good morning, Carl." He spun to find Emily Cowles watching him.

"Emily!" he exclaimed in delight. He embraced her like a long-lost aunt. "It's good to see you!"

She was startled at his embrace. "Why, you're certainly in a good mood."

"I am!" He slipped past her to his desk. On it sat the cast-iron workhorse. He noticed right away that it had no electric wire attached, but sat there independent and reliable all on its own. "Ha-ha!" he patted it like an old friend.

"Is he _laughing_ at his typewriter?" Ron asked, shaking his head. "Any day Carl is happy is a bad day for _some_body out there."

"Ron! Good morning to you, too." he tipped his hat to his co-worker and flicked it toward the wall peg.

Vincenzo had heard his voice and came out of his office "Carl! Is that last draft of the influence peddling article ready for the Wire?"

"Good morning to you too, Tony."

"Yeah, good morning–– where's the article?"

"Well, if it's done, it would be right–" he turned to the typewriter, pulled out the sheet and scanned it quickly, "–here." he handed it over with a broad smile.

Vincenzo scanned it as well, and looked pleased. "Martha! Put this on the Wire." he handed it off and returned to his office.

Later that morning, Kolchak sat at his desk going through notes from the desk and listening to the 70's cassette recorder, trying to get a fix on what stories the other one had been working on. Nothing sounded familiar from memory, but he had never had total recall from 40 years ago. The influence peddling story was there in large measure, as well as the report of a murder/suicide that was fairly typical stuff to come across the crime reporter's desk... His mind wandered as he watched the comings and goings of the newsroom. Uptight was talking on the phone holding a huge hand-piece. Martha sat typing at a Wire console, her fingers a blur and her eyes never leaving the the carbon-copy sheet in front of her. Miss Emily sat near-by placing one tile after another onto her upright puzzle board. Wood pieces held in the hand...

Kolchak was more in the mood for musing than digging. "Emily, why is it things from your past seem so comforting?"

She glanced at him, then back at the board, smiling. "You're a little young to be feeling _nostalgic_, dear."

"Am I?"

"Familiar _is_ comforting." she paused while she placed the remaining tiles to finish the word she was working on. "But there's a danger of romanticizing the past and forgetting what it was _really_ like."

"Not remembering it right?"

"More like remembering it slanted. Remembering the good parts while not remembering the bad. I liked sleigh rides when I was a little girl, and when I think back, what I remember is the sound of the bells on the horses as they ran, and how clean and clear the air was..." she smiled broadly at her co-worker, "but if I were to go back, I think I would see how awfully cold I got just sitting there in the wind traveling between towns. And horses don't smell as nice as they _sound_." she chuckled.

Kolchak was holding a No. 2 pencil and examining it, frowning. "Does that ever bother you that what's coming in the future is so... unknown?"

"Hmmm." After finishing another word on the puzzle board, she said, "I think the wise person adapts to change, to progress. Look ahead, not backwards, even if backwards _is_ comforting."

"That's very forward-thinking of you, Emily." He continued watching the newsroom.

She turned to face him. "There's something different about you this morning."

"No, just the same ol' Carl."

"I don't think so. You seem... calmer. More pensive... less _driven_ than normal."

Kolchak raised his eyebrows, but did not answer.

"Are you coming down with a bug?" she asked. The newsroom started to vibrate. Emily returned to her tiles, But Kolchak gripped the desktop. He craned his neck to watch the L train rumble past. For half a minute, all conversation in the newsroom stopped, although no one else actually turned to watch the train but Kolchak. As the mournful horn flowed away, Kolchak shook his head. "That's certainly _louder_ than I remember." he said to himself.

Monique walked from desk to desk. "Mail call." she commented as she tossed a few letters on his desk. Kolchak picked up the letters and stared at them. Something was different here from what was 'normal' to him. What? Surely people still send _letters_ to each other in 2015!

Vincenzo came out of his office and headed down the row to Kolchak's desk. "Your article has been picked up by 10 papers already. Not exactly a _Saigon_ story, but it should make the front section of the Chicago papers at the very least," he chuckled. "Good digging, Carl."

"Thanks." he answered, distractedly touching the 10 cent stamp on each the letters in front of him, "What's going on in Saigon that's so big?"

Every head in ear-shot turned to him.

"What?" he asked their shocked faces. No one answered.

"You're joking."

"He _has_ to be joking."

"Carl is trying for an Oscar this morning" said Ron cooly, "In his own version of _One who Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest."_

Kolchak sat self-consciously. "What?"

Vincenzo finally answered. "The _evacuation_? Surely you caught the news of the evacuation! No newsman can be that clueless about national affairs. No _adult_ can be!"

"Evacuation from Saigon? What year was that?" Kolchak spoke to himself– but out loud by mistake.

"What year? That was end of last _month_! Have you been in a _CAVE_?"

"A democracy only works when the public is educated and _informed_, Carl." Updyke looked down his nose.

"Well, of course I heard about it." Kolchak back-peddled.

Vincenzo frowned and raised his chin. He hit Kolchak with an appraising gaze. "Would you step into my office please?" He turned and headed to his office. Kolchak rose and obediently followed him through the swing-gate.

Once inside, Vincenzo took his place behind his desk and turned to his reporter. "What's the matter, Carl?"

"Nothing's the matter."

"You think I don't know you well enough to know something is going on with you?"

"I was a little confused for a moment, but of course I saw the news reports. I was as upset as anyone..."

"Carl." Vincenzo's jaw was set. "Tell me what is going on."

He shifted guiltily. "Umm...I... I think I've got some amnesia." he finally admitted.

"Amnesia! Caused by what?"

"I'm not real clear on that. I know who I am, of course, and where I work. Where I live too, which is lucky. But... I kind of lost track of what year it is."

"What _year_ it is?" Vincenzo asked in disbelief. Kolchak nodded, contrite. "It's 1975!"

"Well, that clears up _that_. Can I go?"

"**No**! What _caused_ this? Since when have you been this way?"

"I don't remember the 'caused' part. I came to in the middle of a street near my place late last night."

"Came to? You were unconscious? In the middle of a _street_? Carl!" Vincenzo stood and came around the desk in concern, "You must have been hit by a hit-and-run driver ––you could have a _concussion_!"

"I feel much better this morning..."

"You need to be checked out!" he eyed Kolchak's pupils closely. "Go to the doctor, have an x-ray done."

"Nobody looks into _my_ head but me, Tony," he said darkly.

"I'm serious, Kolchak! Take the afternoon off and go see a doctor. That's an order!"

"I'm _fine_, and I have work to do."

"No you _don't_, because I'm the boss and I just took the work away until you have been checked over! It's important to me that my reporters don't have bleeding on the brain."

Kolchak sighed. "I'll take the afternoon off, then. But I'm telling you, I feel much improved."

"Go there now. If you are injured, every hour counts. Time is _not_ on your side."

"Time is not on my side," he repeated as he left the room, shaking his head. "Truer words were never spoken."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note; I just figured out that my account was set for NOT accepting reviews of people unless they had accounts on the site. Oops. Still figuring out this site. I have changed that setting. I do want to hear what you're thinking.**

**Tango by SpunSilk**

**Part three**

* * *

If we open a quarrel between the past and present, we will find we have lost the future.

– Winston Churchhill

* * *

Kolchak entered The Dive to find his twin still not dressed but sitting at the tiny table examining the Macmillan recorder with great interest.

"Feeling better?"

"Do you know this gizmo has no moving parts?"

"Of course not, it's electronic." He stopped short, wondering where _that_ word had come from.

"You mean, it's like a robot?" he asked, delighted. "It _does_ work – I tried it!"

"Of course it works," he took it from him. "What good would it be if it didn't work?" He stashed it back in his pocket.

"Hey! Don't take it back–" he reached for the toy.

"If the bed counts as yours, the recorder counts as mine," he said, handing over the 70's camera and tape recorder.

Disappointment showed on his twin's face. "Tiny little thing. Don't know how you avoid loosing it." he said. "You know, you should at least listen to what you've got on there. You could learn something."

Kolchak did a double-take and pulled out the recorder. He hit play. His own voice came out obediently, although what it said was news to him.

_"April 20th, 11:15 P.M. What do you do when the story you're working on takes a turn that forces you to admit the only possible explanation can't be of this world? An explanation so bizarre, so fascinating, so _chilling_ in it's implications. The question that has haunted man for thousands of years as he sat around his campfire and looked up into the cold, dark velvet of the night sky: what is out there? As we sit watching the uncounted diamonds of light, what if the diamonds are watching back? What if?  
__I conferred again today with Stevenson. He insists he can find it, although Ripsch remains missing. Personally, I would feel better if they could just find the body... Better is a relative term, of course... It's not that I'm hard-hearted, but this reporter has seen enough in this life to know what all this could mean. Game-change. From the bottom up. Are we _ready_ to learn this?  
__Sadly, reporters are paid to learn things, whether they are ready to learn them or not. I'm going with them."_

Silence followed. Kolchak clicked the device off and stood frowning in thought.

"It sounds similar to the story with the consumed zoo cats, from a while back."

"Yeah," he answered, trying to remember having ever spoken those words.

"My theory is your stake-out worked. You have pictures on the outside of your camera that could be a UFO."

"You fiddled with my _camera_ too?" he said picking it up from the table.

"Yeah. Don't worry– I didn't take it apart or anything."

"It's got a limited battery life, fool!"

"So replace the batteries when they run out." he shrugged.

"It doesn't run on AAs! The internal battery is rechargeable from the wall socket. You got the right cord for that in 1975?"

Kolchak raised his eyebrows sheepishly but did not answer the question. "So suddenly you're H.G. Wells, short-sightedly amusing the primitive natives with your precious matches?"

"The natives seem to be amusing themselves with my precious matches just fine _without_ me!" he growled. He turned his attention to the camera. "All I would need is access to a computer for a few minutes, to download these..."

"Well, what do you know? I don't own one. I guess _you_ know people who do. Where do they keep it? Will one fit in the newsroom?"

He glanced at his twin. "Yeah." he said simply. He powered up the camera and studied the image.

"That's a nice close shot" the Kolchak in the bathrobe commented, peeking over his shoulder. "So, I'm thinking if you got too close to this thing, and they didn't like it, they might have––"

"––flicked me away! I _have_ it now! I was about to put my hand on it, it looked like ...some odd whitish metal, I expected it would feel _smooth––_–!" he stopped.

"And here you are."

"And here I am." He sat down heavy. "Forty years into my own past..."

Neither said anything for a moment.

"Well, I suppose that's nicer than just zapping you with their ray-gun or something. I certainly have learned from your experience. I should thank you. When _my_ turn comes, I'll know that one is 'Hands Off!' " The other gave no response. "At least you came out of it with your marrow intact." He took the camera and studied the image closely. "Great story, though. Pity you won't be able to get your by-line on it."

Kolchak stared at the floor without seeing it. "I don't know how to get _back_..."

The other studied his twin silently for a while. "You might not be able to." he answered gently. No response. He watched him wrestle internally. "Is it this Cassie person?"

"What? No..."

"Oh. Well... think about it. Is 1975 so bad?" No answer. He sighed. "I think it's time to find a new name for you."

"I like my name just fine." he answered, distracted.

"We need one anyway."

"Why?"

"Think. You expect nobody's going to notice there are now suddenly _two_ of me?"

"Huh. _Some_ people might be _pleased_."

"Damn few."

His twin grunted in amusement.

"What about Karel?

"My Romanian name?"

"If it was good enough for Ma and Buni, it should be good enough for _you_."

"Nobody's called me Karel in years..."

"Then it's high time," Carl clapped him on the back.

"I need a drink." he said with resolve.

Carl glanced at his watch, but made no comment. Certainly he deserved it. "We could go over to Arthur's..." He glanced into the kitchen corner. "But let's work on this, here, instead." He pulled out a half-empty bottle of bourbon and poked around in the pile of dirty dishes for two glasses.

"You ashamed to be seen with me in public?" Karel asked, taking a glass and accepting a shot.

"No, but it's cheaper this way."

"It's _what_?"

"Don't know if you've noticed, but there are two mouths for one paycheck here."

"Twice the work can get done though. Vincenzo may even get copy by deadline."

"But it's still one _paycheck_."

Karel frowned and took a long pull on the liquor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Tango**

**Part four**

* * *

Do not dwell in the past,  
do not dream of the future,  
concentrate the mind on the present moment.

– Buddha

* * *

Karel got up to change the LP. After having changed so many so far this afternoon and evening, he still was charmed by the process. Lift the needle-arm, swing it out of the way, gingerly lift the fragile vinyl. He blew any dust off the black disc and lovingly returned it to the paper sleeve inside the cardboard cover. The _Ceremony of the Music_. Holding the jazz in his hand gave him the same thrill as holding the Wire feed had back at the INS office. Curious. Did people not _hold_ music anymore in 2015? "What do you want to hear now?"

Carl shrugged. "You're doing a fine job of picking them out."

"Louie it is." he set the next LP to playing, and returned to the old dead couch. They had changed to beer after the first shot of bourbon. It seemed a shame to get drunk when this conversation was going on. They had been talking hours by now, almost the whole time discussing old stories they had worked on. Comparing swamp-monsters to werewolves, tackling philosophy and religion in the light of their knowing for a fact that the devil actually existed. Contrasting political expediency with public safety. Being amazed, the both of them, at mankind's ability to refuse to see what laid clearly in front of him. Mankind's almost unlimited ability for self-delusion. Discussing the responsibility they felt, given that they alone seemed to know some of this stuff was out there...

Carl chuckled in response. "You know, I've never been able to really talk with somebody else about all the strange stuff I've seen. _Tell_ about it– yes, _talk_ about it– no."

"I'm not sure, technically, this qualifies as talking to somebody _else_ about it..." Karel took a sip.

His twin studied him curiously. "What do you remember about what it was like in 2015?"

"Not a lot. Impressions, a few vague images. I seem to do best if you give me a connection prompt, then sometimes things flash into focus for a second, although they leave again just as fast. It's like trying to catch a dream before it leaves."

"Huh. Any idea where in the stock market I should put all my extra money?"

"Microsoft," came the immediate response. Karel looked startled himself.

"Micro-soft?" Carl asked incredulously. "Mattress company?"

Karel stared hard into the corner trying to pull back more. "I don't _think_ so..." he looked up. "Since when do _you_ have extra money?" he demanded.

"You're right." He chuckled again. "You're from L.A. – have you had The Big One?"

"No..."

"Have the Russians invaded yet?"

"The Russians? No... that problem went away...I _think_..."

"Went _away_? You're got to be joking!"

"No, _something_ happened... in... in New York." He closed his eyes in concentration, but all he got was a tall numeral eleven, which made no sense at all...

"_Not_ the Russians, though, huh?"

Karel shook his head trying to pull it into focus, but it was gone. "Maybe it was. This remembering thing is awful hard..." Karel stopped suddenly to listen intently to a favorite solo in the jazz.

Carl had closed his eyes for the solo at exactly the same moment. They savored the music together. Once it was done, they grinned at each other like a couple of school boys.

"Do you have our Pulitzer for us yet?" Carl asked.

"Why don't **you **have our Pulitzer for us yet?" he demanded back.

"Lots of reasons:" he ticked them off on his fingers, "Vincenzo, Paine, _Vincenzo_, Crossbinder, Schubert, _Vincenzo, _Mateo, _Vincenzo_..."

"Good copy, every one!" he raised his glass in a toast.

"How did we ever get into such a frustrating line of work?" Carl stared into the beer in his glass.

"It's _important_ work. Never doubt that." Karel sat forward and hit his twin with a look of intensity that belied the alcohol in his system.

His twin nodded. "I know."

They sat listening to the notes, toes tapping their toes in unison.

"I'll bet good money that people are still listening to Louie in 2015."

"I'll make that bet, too" Karel pulled out his wallet and extracted a twenty. "This probably isn't even legal tender now, is it?"

Carl took the bill from him and only laughed, examining it with delight. "Andy Jackson's gotten bigger. This looks like play money!"

"It's about as useful as that to me."

"What else have you got to show me?"

Karel patted his pockets, and found to his surprise another small device in his inner coat pocket. A compact, hinged device. "Hey! I have my... I want to say...phone. Can that be right?" He flipped it open.

"Yeah, even_ I_ can recognize that; it's for talking to spaceships, for communication. They used those in that starship show on TV a few years back."

"Oh. That must be it then," Karel frowned."Why would _I_ need to contact our spaceships?" he wondered.

"You're probably _reporting_ on them. This is great!" Carl continued. "The moon must be all colonized by your day. What an exciting time to be a reporter! Has mankind made it to Mars, or am I thinking too small?"

"I don't remember Mars... but it could be..."

He powered up the device, but the screen was not very informative. "It says 'No signal'."

"Of course not. That's to be expected. Your spaceships aren't there yet. Skylab's the only one we have up there. They probably don't use your frequency."

"It also says '1:34' that will be the time I left."

"Ha! Your spaceship communication gizmo tells _time _too?"

"That's called multi-tasking."

"Multi-tasking," Carl tasted the word and chuckled at how it sounded. "Don't tell me; it takes pictures for you as well."

"Of course not, for that I carry the camera." He pulled it out and held it while puzzling on the problem of the pictures held within it. "If I can't download these pictures to save them, I'll have to find another way. The battery will eventually run out and the images may hold the key to getting me home." He considered. "Do we have the Hasselblad at the office?"

"Sure."

"I know what to do – I'll take a picture of the image on the screen with the film camera. Then I have a negative."

"Your picture there doesn't have a _negative_? What good is that? What if you want to enlarge it?"

"Don't ask me questions I don't remember the answers to. I'll go in to INS and–"

"I should do it. You must be rusty with the enlarger equipment. Negative work, you know."

"You think I'm handing you my camera again, you're crazy."

They glared at each other. Carl suddenly grinned. "We could both go."

Karel was taken aback. "Are you for real? I don't want to even take the _chance_ of giving Emily a fright."

"We could go now," he answered, looking at his watch. "Nobody works at night but me."

Karel glance at his own wrist and the lack of any wrist watch. "That's true... everybody else has a life."

"What does that phrase mean?"

"We would be in the darkroom anyway... Yeah. That would work. Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

**Tango**

**Part five**

* * *

How wonderful that we have met with a paradox. Now we have some hope of making progress.

– Niels Bohr

* * *

Carl entered the INS office, and glancing around, went to the darkroom and started pulling the big camera out of the high cupboard. He pulled out canisters and began loading film.

Ten minutes later, Karel entered. He was intently headed for the darkroom when a noise nearly made him jump out of his skin. Ron and Tony entered from the hallway deep in discussion. "––in Hong Kong. Call Jeff Mallet too, I want his input before we wrap this up. There's no telling what they'll–– oh. Hello, Carl." Tony said. "What did the doctor say?"

"I'm fine, just like I told you. I have a clean bill of health. What are you two doing here so late at night?"

"Mr. Vincenzo and I are nursing a story," Updyke stated importantly. "It wouldn't interest you, I'm sure; Financial World, you know. No blood involved."

"Not _yet_, anyway" Tony chuckled. "We'll have to see when Wall Street wakes up tomorrow morning–– " They entered Vincenzo's office.

Karel nodded and grinned until they were around the corner, then scooted to the darkroom.

"You said no one would be here!" he hissed.

"Well, excuse me for making a mistake." whispered Carl defensively, having heard the whole conversation through the thin walls of the old building. "No one was _supposed_ to be! Including _you_ I might add!"

"There's no lock on this stupid door."

"Pull the dark-curtain."

Karel complied quickly. "If he sees two of us, that could shock his heart problem ––"

"Two Kolchaks _would_ shock him." Carl said, winding the film forward. "Though he could use a bit of a shock..."

"Hey!" Karel said sharply, "Carl! This is _me_ here! You don't need to feign disdain for Tony Vincenzo in front of _me!"_

"Oh. right." Carl looked sheepish. "Sorry. Habit."

"_Two_ Kolchaks would shock most anybody. Let's just get this done. There's no reason for either of them to bother us in here."

They worked quickly setting up the two cameras. Carl looked down into the view-finder and focused carefully on the screen of the magic camera. Karel pulled up each of the digital UFO pictures for Carl's waiting film camera. The distinctive 'thwap!' of a high-quality shutter sounded again and again. Karel grinned each time he heard it sound.

Tony's voice sounded suddenly from the other side of the door, "Carl, are you in the darkroom?"

Their eyes locked. "I'll be right out, Tony." Karel called.

The door handle turned.

Carl dove for the white-light switch, and plunged them into darkness. Karel searched in vain for something he could slip behind. "Don't come _in_ Tony! I'm developing for Pete's sake!"

"Don't get your shorts in a knot, Kolchak. That's what the dark-curtain is for." The door closed and Vincenzo fumbled in the thick cloth curtain to find the double opening.

Carl pulled the chain on the red-light and Karel did his level best to blend into the Enlarger unit. There's not a lot to be said for hiding in a darkroom in a white suit, though. As Vincenzo finally entered, Carl, in a panic, grabbed a large print from a pile and hung it on the side of the red-light shade to cast a feeble shadow towards where his twin pressed silently into a corner. "Hold on, I can't see a thing..." Vincenzo said.

"What's so bloody important that you need to interrupt me in here?" Carl grumbled, quickly positioning himself to force Vincenzo to put his back to Karel, and hoping his heart wasn't beating loud enough to be noticed.

"This just came in over the Wire." he handed him the paper.

"Well, I'm not going to be able to read it by red-light, now am I? Let's take it outside––"

"How's your amnesia, Carl?"

"What amnesia?" It was out of his mouth before he could think.

But Vincenzo was distracted by the counter behind Carl. "The _Hasselblad_? You be careful with that camera, you _know_ what it would cost to replace. What do you need it for?"

"I..."

"Huh. This is new..." Vincenzo picked up the digital camera and squinted at it in the dim light.

As he did, Karel gasped silently and reflexively grabbed his shoulders. The _oddest_ sensation ran through him. Almost as if he were being distorted, pulled, _stretched_. What the _hell _? It lasted only a moment– it moved like a wave through him, leaving him shaken and shaking. The headache was back, full-force.

"That's my new light sensor," Carl said, taking it back from Vincenzo, slipping it in his pocket. "And I _do_ know how much the camera costs, you remind me every time I need to use it. You really tie my hands when you expect me to do my _job_ at the same time you have me worrying about the _tools_ I use to do that job!" He purposefully walked toward the exit, forcing Vincenzo to follow if he wanted to answer him.

He did want to. "There are tools and there are _tools_, nitwit. I don't drive a Royals-Royce to go buy bagels––" they exited the darkroom together in heated discussion. Karel slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

Within a few minutes, Carl re-entered the darkroom. "Karel? he whispered. "Where are you?"

"Down here."

"What happened?"

"Something went through me..."

"Electric shock?"

"No."

His eyes were adjusting to the point he could see his twin in the dim light. "Can you stand?"

"I think I'll just sit a bit. You go ahead and print."

Carl hesitated, but then got right to developing the film. The acrid smell of the chemicals was comforting somehow to Karel, like a smell from a favorite aunt's kitchen. It was how photography _should_ smell. It was the smell of the Hunt, the Story. He smiled.

By the time Carl was developing the prints from the Enlarger, Karel was on his feet again. "You okay?" Carl asked, concerned.

"Yeah. I don't know what that was. I was pulled... sideways."

"Pulled off-balance?" He hung the prints up to dry.

"No. Pulled sideways right where I stood... I was..._wider_. Like Silly Putty."

Carl shot him a sharp look. "You were _Silly Putty_?" Karel nodded. "That clinches it. _I'm_ driving home tonight." They stood silently while the prints dried.

Once they were dry, Karel gathered them inside his suit coat. He said, "Okay, I'm going out. Give it 10 minutes then come out yourself."

Carl nodded. "l'll meet you at the Mustang." He leaned his back against the counter and folded his arms to wait. It was quiet and dark in the room, and before long he heard Karel close the main door. He waited. Soon, however, he faintly heard activity again.

"There's nothing to do now but wait for the morning reaction on the Wire. I'm heading home, Ron."

"I will lock up, Mr. Vincenzo. Thank you for your help. Have a good night."

"I thought Carl was still here."

"He just left 2 minutes ago."

"Okay, thanks. See you in the morning."

Carl started to grin mischievously in the dim light. _Ron's heart, on the other hand, is perfectly healthy_, he thought. A scant twenty counts after he heard the door close behind Tony, he exited. As he walked through the newsroom, he said cheerily, "G'night Ron."

Updyke started violently. "Wh––!" he stared, gap-mouthed.

Carl turned back to him. "You said something?"

"You just––– I saw–– What–– " he sputtered.

Carl approached his desk slowly, "What is it, Ron?"

"_What are you __**up**__ to?_ I saw you leave that room three minutes ago!_"_

"You saw _what_?"

"I saw you leave that room three minutes ago!" he cried emphatically.

Carl's face was full of concern. "Are you certain?"

"Yes! I know what I saw!"

"I _believe_ you, Ron," he said in a calming tone. He sat down on the edge of the desk. "What _other_ symptoms are you having?"

"I ––what?"

"Other symptoms. Of schizophrenia."

"Schizo–––!" Updyke stopped short.

"Have you heard voices, too? I read once you start seeing things, voices come into your head too, sometimes..." his voice was ernest.

"I don't have schizophrenia! I _did_ see you come out of that room three minutes ago!" he jabbed an accusing finger at his co-worker.

Carl nodded sagely. "And part of your mind **knows **that's crazy, doesn't it?"

Updyke turned his head, suddenly unsure. His eyes unfocused.

"Hold on to that part _tight_, Ron. Don't let go!" he urged, clenching a fist for emphasis. "Fight it!"

Updyke sat stunned. Carl stood slowly, his face still full of concern.

"I have to go now. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?"

"Yes... I..."

"You're sure." Carl backed away towards the door.

Updyke nodded, staring at his desk without seeing, biting his bottom lip.

"Don't worry, Ron. They have medications these days. I'll... I'll see you in the morning, then." he said gently. "Is that alright?" Carl opened the door.

Updyke nodded dumbly.

"Okay, then." Carl backed out and closed the door quietly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Tango**

**Part six**

* * *

I've got my faults, but living in the past is not one of them. There's no future in it.

–– Sparky Anderson

* * *

Carl entered The Dive the next evening with take-away for two, and found Karel at the tiny kitchen table frowning over the small electronic recorder. "Dinner." he said simply. Karel rose and found plates and forks, the later from the pile of dirty dishes near the tiny sink.

"I've typed the entry that's on my recorder. Now I've got the pictures if I need them as well as a record of the voice. The batteries can do what they like."

Carl picked up the typed sheet and read it silently.

"Ripsch remains missing. No body to be found..." said Karel, in thought.

"Ah." Carl commented. "You figure the same thing happened to _him_ before it happened to you?" He handed over one order of Fish and Chips.

"Could be. I want to find out if he is here."

"Here. In Chicago?"

"No, here in 1975. I'm in my own past here in Chicago. Ripsch would have been sent into his own past. I don't know where – this guy may have been from outer Mongolia for all I know. But he might know something more than I do about returning." They sat on opposite sides of the table and dug into their dinners.

"Why? Was he a scientist?"

"I don't remember a thing about him."

"Would you recognize him?"

"No."

"You have his first name?"

"No."

"Would he recognize _you_?"

"Now how would I know that?"

"Wow, You going to search the whole world with just '_Ripsch_'?"

"I realize it's not a lot, but it's not that common a name. It can't be so hard. I would just Google him on the Web."

"Do _what_ to the guy?"

"Google him, it means 'search for' "

"It sounds obscene. Why not just say 'search for'?"

Karel chewed thoughtfully. "I don't know."

"–– and what web is it he would be hiding in?"

He stopped chewing. "... I don't know that either. We have a Web..." he trailed off.

"Well we don't. The 70's option if you are looking for a person is classifieds in major city papers. That works about as well as it did to help me find Gail."

"Help _us_ find Gail. I did that too, remember."

They ate in silence. Each privately went over the unsavory injustices of the Las Vegas affair once again and they stewed in stereo. After a while Carl breached the subject carefully; "You know, even if you do find him, there's a big chance you won't be able to return." Karel frowned, but continued eating without comment. "I think you should have Plan B of living in 1975."

His twin didn't answer for a bit. "Maybe so. The possibility has crossed my mind." he sounded resigned.

Carl glanced up. "Have you done any thinking about what work you want to do?"

Karel raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Do?"

"Professionally."

"What I want to do _professionally_? I'm a _reporter_!" he answered, knee-jerk. Then he stopped, a look of shock on his face. "Oh!"

"Yeah." answered Carl.

Karel felt like he had been gut-kicked. "Do something _else_?"

Carl made no comment. He knew how hard that would be for _him_. "Don't worry about that now," he assured his twin. "Something will work itself out. It always does."

* * *

Later that evening, Karel sat clacking away at the old portable typewriter set up on the tiny table in the kitchen, a stack of paper next to him. "You still know how to type?" Carl asked incredulously from where he sat on the dead green couch. "I would have thought you would just be _talking_ to your typewriters in your day, and let _them_ do all the work."

"We do," he said smugly, not actually remembering whether or not this was true, "but this old thing still needs my fingers."

"What you working on?" he asked curiously.

"I thought I'd pound out a quick novel, you know, to keep busy and bring in a bit of bacon."

"Ah. Murder Mystery?"

He glanced back at him with a sly grin. "Nope. Something new. A little science fiction piece. About what life is like in the future..."

Carl laughed good-naturedly. "You're a natural!"

"You know Murphy McKenna yet?"

"No."

"Well, you will soon. He's going to publish it for you."

"Friend of yours – ah, of mine?"

"He will be, just as soon as I introduce myself to him." He jotted down the name and address on a scrap of paper and leaned back in the chair to hand it to his twin.

As he did so, he was hit again with a wave of distortion, harder this time. He cried out, but didn't even hear his own voice. He grabbed his shoulders and clamped them tight, but they insisted on stretching apart from each other. A visual hallucination accompanied this attack; for just a second he saw fractals, although he couldn't have identified them by name. Geometry –– layer upon layer. Vibrant colors next to colors they should not be up next to –– next to colors that didn't even have names –– next to colors that weren't even colors. His mind seized at the very glimpse of it. When the wave passed and the world righted itself again, he found himself on the floor with no memory of how he got there, nor what he had seen. Carl leaning over him cradling his head and calling to him.

"Wh..What...?"

"_Man_, you gave me a fright! Are you _alright_?"

"Was I... out?" His head pounded once more.

"Out? You were _see-through_ in parts!"

"Huh?"

"Like Silly Putty! Like you said before! You were pulled out like a bad cartoon!"

"Oh. You saw this?" It was hard to think through the headache.

"Never seen anything like it! I thought it was a new _nightmare_. Might have to deal with it become one after watching it happen..."

"The last thing you and I need is a new nightmare. I'm fine. I didn't bleed, that's good, right?" he tried to stand up, but ended up rolling back to a sitting position on the floor. "Whoa."

"What brought that on?"

"No idea. What stopped it?"

"I didn't see a thing to explain any of it. Are you going to be doing this a lot? Stretching out like a carnival magic mirror? Do people _do_ this in 2015?"

"I don't remember. Although, I think _that_ I'd remember if it happened often."

They sat together on the floor. At length, Karel said, "Do you have the Mojo bag handy?"

"Of course, it's never far away." Carl answered and getting up, retrieved it from the top drawer of his small dresser. "You suspect _witchcraft_?" He handed over the small pouch with its long draw-string.

"I don't have any other explanation." He loosened one more button on his shirt and slipped the amulet bag over his head and under his shirt. "And wearing a Mojo bag has to be like Ma always said with chicken soup––"

They smiled identical wry smiles and spoke in unison, "––_hey, it can't hurt!_ "


	7. Chapter 7

**Tango**

** Part seven**

* * *

Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing that it's not the fish they are after.

–Henry David Thoreau

* * *

"You know, Bruni didn't call it 'fishing'. He called it 'drowning worms.' "

"I remember," Karel chuckled and cast.

"Oh, of course. It's _odd_ sharing a set of memories with somebody."

"You and I get to see some odd stuff."

They floated in a rented boat on a small lake in southern Wisconsin. Lake water lapped quietly on the sides, and a loon called from the near shore. This was where he – where they– came to get out of the city and its stresses on weekends sometimes. Where the only monster to be faced was the dreaded Wisconsin mosquito (a nasty beast in its own right), and where the fish were just smart enough to keep it interesting.

"What would Bruni have said to a Wisconsin lake, do you figure?"

Carl grinned and cast. "Heaven! You could almost _walk_ on the Hudson back then. Not that he caught enough fish to worry about the water it came from." They sat in contented contemplation, watching the bobbers, hearing the lapping water.

After a long silence, Carl spoke. "I don't think you have a big chance of finding this guy Ripsch."

He didn't answer right away. "Well, we're in the same boat there. Pardon the irony."

"Even if you _do_ find him, and even if he _is_ some sort of scientist, the two of you have no time-travel machinery available to you in 1975."

Karel exhaled slowly. "...which leaves Plan B." The soothing lapping filled the silence.

"Well, Plan B offers you a fishing buddy you never had in 2015..."

"Hold on, I've got something. Hey! He's big."

Carl turned to watch. "Fight him, bring him in!"

Karel felt the line go slack. "No! He's gone. Blast it!" He reeled in. "The thief took my bait. He was at least 24 inches––!"

"You could tell this from the tug on the line?" Carl asked incredulously, turning back to his own bobber. "Come on, you can't BS a BS-er."

"No, really! And he was a Walleye too! I swear it!" He reached up and caught the swinging hook.

Carl laughed. "What ever you say, brother!"

Karel shot a sharp look at him; Carl's eyes went wide. "**Sorry**! I'm sorry. That just slipped out..." he sounded shocked at himself.

Karel returned to baiting his hook with a frown. An long uncomfortable silence hung between them. At length Karel grumbled "How old would he have been this year?"

"43." Carl's jaw was set hard.

More silence.

"What a waste." He cast again, with more force than was really required.

They sat.

* * *

ooooooo

* * *

In the early evening, they were once again entering the city limits of Chicago. The creel was empty, but both were relaxed. "I've been thinking. We need to get you a real bed. That couch is going to do a number on your back over the long haul––"

"No need." Karel shifted in his seat. "I've been doing some thinking of my own. I think it's time I should _leave_."

"What?" Carl was caught off-guard.

"I know _I _wouldn't want somebody landing in my lap and screwing up the nice life I had in '75, and I can't imagine you feel any differently." He glanced at his twin.

"I never once thought––!"

"Think. This can _not_ work. What do you want to do? You 'have' the city in the morning and I get it in the afternoon? You want to creep around forever, not letting anyone who knows us see us at the same time? Risk a deadly shock for Tony again?"

Carl's jaw set. "Of course not, but this is still out of the blue."

"I've been thinking for a few days. I figure you and I being of a same mind, you'll see my logic. And The Dive is too small for two. We both need our privacy."

"We can get a different _room_–– we can move up to an apartment! Some people _do_." Carl gripped the wheel hard.

A pause followed. "Carl," Karel's face contorted in desperation. "I need to _work_." The other glanced at him, then back at the road. "I can't be different than what I am: I'm a _reporter_– blood and bone. _You_ understand that. And I'm afraid this town isn't big enough for two of us, both being reporters."

Long silence. He had no answer for that.

"I've made my decision. I'm going to California. I'm suppose to end up there in the end anyway, right?"

Carl's brow was furrowed. "What about the... episodes you've been having? I don't think you should drive."

"As far as the episodes, I think they have to be after-shocks from the whole time-shift thing. They _have_ to get fewer as time goes on. Anyway, I'm planning on taking a Greyhound for the trip out."

"You've thought this out." Carl marveled. Then he sighed deeply. "Just been kind of nice... having family again," he exhaled.

"Nah, that would get old fast. Ma always said I was too ornery to––"

"––get along with myself. Yeah, I know." he grinned in response."Who would have thought we'd ever actually have a chance to find out?"

"We won't loose contact. You guys have telephones in '75, right? And I'll let everybody I meet in California know I have an identical twin from Chicago! Then, sometime you can drive out to see me and we won't have to creep around at all. I _do_ want to keep in touch– I think I'll be an excellent resource for you for some of the... dicier stories you work on the next number of years!"

Carl grinned wider.

"I'll leave as soon as I can."

"You're decided, aren't you?"

"And you _know_ how stubborn I can get."

They both watched the headlights pass by in silence.

"Well, you're not leaving without me throwing you a going-away party. Let's go out tonight. I'll take you anywhere you want to eat. Did you find anyplace special in Chicago after '75 that you could give me the early heads-up on?"

A memory flashed on Karel's face. "I want to go to _The Bucket of Suds_," Karel said suddenly.

"Where?" he asked, amused.

"Cassie's favorite place. Cicero Avenue. I'll show you where to drive." he said, suddenly enthusiastic, sitting forward in the seat.

"Hoping to meet her?" he raised his eyebrows and glanced to the side.

"Maybe."

Carl shook his head, "Bad idea. Two Carls might frighten her off, unless she knows us already. And since _I_ don't know _her_, I'll bet she doesn't."

"That's where I want to go, anyway."

"Okay... it's your party."


	8. Chapter 8

**Tango **

**Part eight**

**Authors's note: Cassie, Joe and _The Buc_****_ket of Suds_ belong to John Ostrander from his excellent story Alternative Endings. Do not miss that story. (Kolchak:The Night Stalker Casebook put out by Moonstone, ISBN 1-933076-17-8)**

******Author's other note: You might want to read up on the eleventh dimension on the web before reading this chapter.**

******Author's note-happy: You might want to review what you read. In this case, silence is _not_ golden.**

* * *

People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but *actually* from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint – it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly... time-y wimey... stuff.

––Steven Moffat, The 10th Doctor

* * *

They entered the city limits. Karel's neck cranked to look at a gas station as they passed it. The A-frame sign out side the station advertised gas at 53 cents a gallon. He frowned, trying to remember... something... But it was gone.

"You guys probably have the flying cars by your time," Carl said wistfully, having noticed his interest in the station. "Sorry, you'll have to make do with rubber on asphalt here."

"They probably do have them, but I still have the Mustang, I'm sure of it."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he said glancing around himself affectionately. "She's a 'classic car' now."

"Classic! That's a car from the '40s to me. What's that mean to you?"

"It means the parts to repair her cost more than they should."

They pulled up to a seedy building, between two used car lots. The Bucket of Suds was the bottom floor of two three-flats joined together. On the door, as they approached, life-sized cut-outs of G. Washington and A. Lincoln stared out at them from the window exactly as they appeared on the one and five dollar bills, respectively. When they entered, the first thing that struck Carl was the stuffed giant sea turtle which hung suspended from the ceiling in the back, seeming to float contentedly in the thick cloud of cigarette smoke that hung in the air along with it. Year-round Christmas tree lights hung along the left wall at about shoulder height, suspended between nails that stuck a good inch out into the room. A number of different conversations murmured the background, as tinny Jazz played from a portable tape player behind the bar.

"Classy places you bring me to." Carl commented, taking it all in.

They took a seat at the dark wood bar that ran the full depth of the right side of the room while Karel scanned the room expectantly. She wasn't there. "Joe's the owner here." he mentioned over his shoulder to his twin, "He's a little... unusual, but he makes the best BBQ I ever tasted."

"Joe's unusual?"

"Odd somehow. I can't put my finger on it..."

"_You_ think he's odd? With all you've seen, that will be saying a lot."

The bartender was a short man with a square chin and a fringe of white hair with a few strands down the center. He wore thick black frames for glasses, and interacted smoothly and easily with the patrons. He approached Carl affably, with a "Hey buddy!" but once he got a view of Karel, he started like he had touched a live wire. "_Holy_ Smokes!"

An uncomfortable silence followed. "Hello stranger, how about a couple of beers?" said Carl, to break the tension. The bartender didn't answer. He stood staring at Karel, who began to squirm under his scrutiny. "Ah... this is my twin," Carl continued, "and we'd both like a beer. And some of your BBQ, we've been told it's real good..."

Joe turned slowly from them, not taking his eyes off Karel until the last minute. He walked back to the kitchen without comment. When he returned, he carried two plates of steaming, sweet-tangy smelling pork. "Why don't you boys take a booth?" he suggested.

They did so, and he delivered the ribs. After that, the beers. The meat was flavorful and smokey, and fell off the bone in the nicest way.

"What's his reaction about? People have identical twins all the time," observed Carl, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin from a generous pile in the middle of the table, "It's perfectly normal,"

"Maybe it's the matching suits too." said Karel between bites of ambrosia.

Carl looked up with surprise at the brim of his hat. "Oh, right. Well, we _could_ try to dress differently..."

"Too much trouble. Easier to have me move to L.A."

Carl chuckled and raised his glass in a toast. "Hey, this is a party. Here's to your bright warm future in sunny California. Hey." He put down the glass with a sudden thought. "Maybe _you_ can have Chicago and the snow and _I_ should be the one to head to warmer climes."

"Nope, _I'm_ the one going west." Karel raised his glass and then drank deeply. He checked the door each time someone entered. "And if I can find Cassie, maybe I can convince her to come out west with me."

"What? She doesn't even know you! She wouldn't agree to follow you cross-country!"

"Cassie's spontaneous. And we had _chemistry_."

Carl shook his head disapprovingly. "You're a romantic. If you two had such _chemistry_, why isn't she out in 2015 with you? Hmm?"

Karel stopped chewing and considered. "I don't remember." he said finally.

As they were finishing, the bartender came again, this time with a bottle and three glasses. "Can I join you two?" he asked. "I've got a nice whiskey I'd like your thoughts on. My name's Joe."

Carl was cautious, but Karel knew Joe relatively well, or _would_ at any rate, and pro-offered a place on the bench. Joe poured three glasses while mentioning casually, "So, you gentlemen strike me as a pair that would enjoy a nice conversation about space-time."

A shocked silence followed his question. "Why would you think that?"

He shrugged. "It's a fascinating subject, that's all. You look like intelligent folks."

"You're an expert on the topic?" Karel asked carefully.

"No, I've got no formal education in the field if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I'm asking."

Joe watched them in silence for a few beats. "I understand the theory pretty well."

Carl said, "Well,_ I _might find such a conversation enlightening. I don't know what the hell you two are talking about."

Joe passed out the glasses and poured each of them a shot. "So, let's see what page we are all on. Have you heard about the 11th dimension?"

Karel looked surprised. "I know about _four_ of them," he said.

"_I've_ only ever heard about the _three_!" Carl added.

"Alright," said Joe. "That's where we start. Think of our three familiar dimensions. For something to actually exist in space-time and not just in our minds, it needs the forth dimension too: namely time, endurance. Without it also having that dimension, it can not physically exist, it's just a thought." He waited for Carl to agree, then continued. "This space-time can be thought of as a great rubber sheet stretched out in all directions. Using this metaphor, it'e easier to imagine Einstein's theory which says that very heavy – _massive _– things like stars and planets can 'bend' space-time, warping it a bit under their weight as if they were sinking into a rubber sheet. People live out the sequential timelines of their lives embedded in the space of this elastic sheet." He checked again to see they were following.

"So the normal state is all of us are living out our lives as a line in this rubber sheet," said Karel – watching the door completely forgotten at this point – "I feel a 'but' coming."

"Yes, normally the sheet stays in a single layer. Space-time is happiest in this state. Before I get to the 'but' we need to understand bending."

He picked up a napkin to illustrate. "Let's imagine that we were living as stick-figures in a universe that was just 2D ––like this paper. We as stick-figures embedded in the paper wouldn't be able to "see" any dimension beyond up-down and back-forth. That would be our whole experience." He waited to see them following. Both Kolchaks blinked, feeling very much like they were back in high school geometry, not a comfortable place for either of them. "In spite of the fact our stick-figure-selves could not understand it, this 2D universe of the paper could be bent in a higher dimension – in this example, the third, which we here at the table can easily see from outside the flat universe of the napkin– to have two points on the flat universe touch each other." He brought two opposite corners on the napkin into contact. "Our stick figure selves would be amazed to observe that one 'corner' of their universe could contact an opposite corner so magically, so _out_ of their experience or even their ability to imagine. But you see, seen from _our_ perspective outside their limited view, it's very simple.

"Well, the same can be said for our 4D space. Even though we here at the table can't see it, our 4D universe under certain conditions, can be bent into a higher dimension we can not see, fold and even come into _contact_ with itself."

"What wild conditions would cause _that_?" asked Karel, his eyebrows high.

"The conditions are another subject altogether. Let's talk about what can happen once the conditions are met. If for instance, if the sheet could be distorted into a fold, someone could push a marble from the top of the rubber sheet, and it could stretch and bend and even touch the sheet segment below it." he pressed an unseen marble with his thumb into his palm.

Karel sensed where this was going. "Could the marble rip through it, if it were pressed hard enough?"

"In theory, yes. But then you've got a tear in the sheet, or even two points in the sheet melded at one point. And the marble could even find itself on the wrong part of its timeline!"

A pregnant pause followed. "Is this bad?" asked Carl, innocently.

"Space-time seems to think so. It 'wants' to be whole, it 'wants' to be in balance."

"So why is an extra marble on the lower sheet so unbalancing?" Karel asked.

"There's a problem called temporal pressure. That situation would have one point in the marbles 'lifeline' feel very marble-heavy, and another part of the line would feel very marble-deficient. Then space-time gets quite unhappy. Like a rubber band all stretched out, it seeks _normalcy_."

"And?" Carl asked.

"...and it's been known to do what it can to 'heal' itself. People say time flies. What they don't know is it also **_snaps_**."

"Which involves what?" Carl demanded, "That sounds sinister."

"The energy stored up in the distorted sheet could snap the misplaced marble right back where it belonged. Violently."

Karel flinched.

Joe peered closely at Karel. "You been feeling alright lately, Buddy?"

"That's a jump. Why a personal question? We are just having a nice enlightening conversation on theoretical physics here."

"Because you, my friend, are shedding tachyon particles like a bad case of dandruff."

"I'm what?"

"He's _what_?"

"Tell me, have you been feeling..._stretched_ at all?" Joe asked. Karel's eyes went wide, but he didn't answer. Joe apparently didn't require an answer. "You know, most people leading nice normal lives don't ever even see this kind of problem, never even _think_ about such things. What makes _you_ special?" he asked, frowning.

Carl hesitated, and then admitted, "We live... an _interesting_ life..." Karel nodded darkly.

"I'm also not seeing a big difference in your apparent ages. You _are_ older. What's your secret?"

"Regular high doses of adrenaline... It's complicated."

"Uh-huh. I don't need to know. May I ask exactly _how_ you came to be here?"

The Kolchaks exchanged a long look. After a bit, Karel pulled the digital camera from his pocket and called up the last image. "I went to touch the thing in this picture," he said handing it over. "I don't know anything more than that."

Joe winced when he saw the camera and turned away with a frown from the open side of the booth to study the image close to his chest. He swore under his breath. "I see." he handed it back under his palm. "Put this away," he urged. He turned to Carl. "Do you at least know how to avoid his situation?" Carl nodded once. "Good. Then at the very least we can avoid a loop." His voice was stern now as he turned back to Karel, "You can **_not_** stay."

"We realize that," he said placatingly. "I plan to move to California –this very week– put some _distance_ between us––"

"No. Listen to me: the changes you are causing by just living here create more and more pent-up energy in the sheet. That energy will snap at some point. It will be less violent if you return now–– before you change too much in the timeline. Here's the bottom line: you have the choice of returning now –– _somewhat_ harsh –– or returning at a time of the sheet's own choosing –– as violently as a marble in a sling-shot."

"What?" cried Carl.

No one said anything for a long moment.

"Does a biological body handle that as gracefully as a marble?" Karel asked with a furrowed brow.

"You have any actual _advice_ for him, or just scary stories?" Carl growled.

Joe pursed his lips. "_Three_ of the dimensions involved you can see and understand easily. Have you been back the physical place to where you...ah, first found yourself here?"

"No."

"Go there. Soon. Now."

"I don't have any idea what to do once I get there!"

"You don't have to do a thing– it's the sheet will do the doing. Go _together_. That should give the extra push to move the elastic into action sooner rather than later."

Two sets of identical eyes looked at him with horror. "Will he... live through it?" Carl asked the question for both of them.

"I can't promise that... but... you made it _here_."

"I was in pretty bad shape when I first arrived ––"

"Friend, you haven't **_seen_** 'pretty bad shape'. Take any artifacts you came with! That's important." He rose and cleared the empty glasses, "You've had a meal of BBQ; that's extra salt and protein for the jump. Plus the whiskey to keep you loose. I'd say you're as prepared as you can be. Good luck." he left the table quickly, leaving the Kolchaks staring at each other.


	9. Chapter 9

**Tango**

**Part nine**

* * *

The Universe's like a human body, you see. A few cuts and bruises here and there don't hurt even major surgery if it's done properly. Paradoxes are just scar tissue. Time and space heal themselves up around them and people simply remember a version of events which makes as much sense as they require it to make.

––Douglas Adams, _Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency_

* * *

They turned the corner onto Macmillan and parked the Mustang. Together they exited and started walking cautiously up the dimly lit side street.

Carl eyed him closely. "How you doing?"

Karel's eyes were focused internally. "This is bizarre. The ground seems to be moving like jell-o when I step on it. And I'm feeling... pressures on me. It _is_ getting worse the closer we come to the spot. I think Joe was on the level." He unbuttoned one more button on his shirt and dug out the Mojo bag. He handed it to his twin. "Here, you can have this back. No witch is trying to tear me in half. It's the whole damn Universe that's trying!"

"You really going to step into this thing?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He shook his head, but _not_ in response to the question. "You're a brave man." he stated.

Karel glanced up at him and chuckled.

They walked in silence. Karel lurched sideways a few times, Carl steadied him.

"There it is." Karel stopped walking, and indicated up the unremarkable city street. "I have no idea if it's safe for you to be too close when I reach it. You better stay back here." His eyes were staring ahead in wonder, seeing things Carl was not privy to.

"What's it feel like?" He could smell the fear on him, and tried to focus his twin on the reporting for a distraction.

"I'm feeling pulled in a lot of directions at once, not just physically, umm ... there's other...I won't say _directions_. Other _pulls_." he closed his eyes and said nothing for a bit. "I feel thin in places and thick in others. It's kind of hard to take. I see... shapes with lace on the edges, repeating geometrical patterns. Incredible colors." His breathing was elevated, his brow a combination of pained and amazed. "_Incredible_ colors. It's –ahh, it's pretty overwhelming. There's not a lot of good words to describe it... " His breathing was heavy now. "I think I'd better get this over with, Carl. Before I lose my nerve."

He turned back to look at his twin. Many unspoken understandings passed between them. At the same moment, each reached to shake hands. The grip was firm.

"Good luck."

"Thanks." he turned, and started away. But then he turned back. "Hey..." he fumbled around for words, "––_remember_ me... okay?" his face was full of doubt.

Carl's gut cramped. "You're going to get through this _fine_."

"Yeah."

Karel turned and walked away again without looking back this time. His balance was off, but he headed in a some-what straight line for the center of the street about half a block up. At one point, his arms flew out to his sides. He stopped and cried out. Carl, watching him, winced. Karel slowly raised his arms to clamp the sides of his head with his forearms, his fingers interlaced in a death-grip behind his neck. After a few nerve-wracking breaths, he leaned forward and began walking again. A bizarre effect started to appear. As he moved forward, he left behind ghost-images of himself, like strobe-light images, that held there behind him and faded away each in turn, long seconds after he had past by. His body seemed to stretch out side-ways. He continued walking, leaning forward toward whatever awaited him.

He blinked out of existence at the same time as a loud thunderclap jarred Carl to his marrow. Carl staggered, let loose the breath he had been holding for he knew not how long, and sank numbly to sit on the ground.

The dark street was quiet, strewn with the normal litter.


	10. Chapter 10 Epilogue

**Authors' note: Cassie, Joe and _The Bucket of Suds_ all belong to Joe Ostrander from his excellent story _Alternative Endings._**

**Tango**

**Part ten **

** Epilogue**

* * *

Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated.

–– Lamartine

* * *

Carl entered the Bucket of Suds, and sat down heavily at the bar. Joe approached with a cautious "Hey, buddy."

"He's gone." Kolchak stared at the bottles behind the bar without seeing them.

"Okay."

"Will he be alright?" he looked pleadingly.

"Hard to say." he studied the man in seersucker. "Chances are, yes."

Carl tipped his hat to the back of his head and ran his hand over his mouth, deep in thought. "I can't take loosing any more brothers, Joe."

Joe held his tongue in sympathetic silence.

"Hiya Joe!" called a woman as she took a booth.

"Hiya sweetie! The usual?"

"Sure."

Joe turned back, and placed a double whiskey – his best– in front of Kolchak. "He _couldn't_ stay."

"Didn't _want_ him to stay. I work **_alone_**." Kolchak spoke with finality.

"Then what's the problem?"

No answer. Joe skillfully mixed a grasshopper, and Kolchak nursed his whiskey, staring ahead of him, unseeing. "Never felt _anything_ like that before... It was... like watching myself commit suicide... in slow motion..."

Joe watched him, appraising. "You'll recover. With time."

"With _time_," Kolchak repeated quietly. He looked up as if seeing Joe for the first time. "Who **_are_** you?" Carl asked through narrow eyes.

"A friendly neighborhood barkeep." he smiled, and walked down the bar with the drink on a tray.

The dark red haired woman who had called to Joe was seated in the booth and accepted the grasshopper from him. "That fellow's not from the neighborhood, Joe. What's _his_ story?"

"Poor guy just lost his brother."

"Ohhh." she said, her bright green eyes suddenly full of concern for another human in pain. "How terrible!"

Joe moved off to serve another pair that had just entered. She watched the man sitting hunched at the bar silently for a full ten minutes before she took her drink and went down to him at the end of the bar. "Hi." she said. "My name's Cassie. Joe told me about your loss, I'm _so_ sorry. I hope you don't think I'm forward, but you look so _lonely_ over here. Do you want to talk?"

FIN


End file.
